


The Immortal

by OdeToLife (HymnForDeath)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura is queen, Altea revived, Altea still has a monarchy though, Altean version of Palen Bol, Celebrations, Culture, Daibazaal revived, F/M, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Galtean is realized, Honerva was saved with the universe, I have a personal issue with season seven, I haven't named it yet, Intergalactic Peace Association (IPA), Lotor can't believe he's still alive, Lotor is a God, Lotura forever, Palen Bol, Punishment, Queen Allura, Tension, Understanding, a bit of angst, allura didn't die, altean culture, both royals deserved so much better, but this is my way of making up for it, honestly, long-lost mothers, no seriously, past allurance, peace association, peace talks, sort of redemption, specialized bedrooms, the Alteans are pure, the Blade of Marmora is a relief agency, the Galra Empire is a Republic, world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-15 22:50:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18508681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HymnForDeath/pseuds/OdeToLife
Summary: Lotor's unlikely escape from the quintessence field inevitably brings him back to what had condemned him: his Altean colonies. Except decaphoebs have passed in his absence and the colonies are not colonies anymore.orTwelve years after the war, Allura gets an unexpected visit on New Altea and has the chance to make some things right.





	1. The Dead

He comes through the throne room doors at last, and it's all he can do not to immediately fall to his knees at the sight of her. She's radiant, a true symbol of power and beauty upon her throne. Exactly where she's supposed to be. And he remains where he's supposed to be: at the end of room, as far from her as possible, with proper posture-- until the Queen orders the doors closed and shoos away all the guard. His shoulders fall promptly, his knees bending slightly in their stiff weakness and his back arching as he leans forward. It hurts to stand straight, even moreso when it makes him stand higher than the innocent around him.

Than the Queen.

Lotor dares not look at her. He stays where he is at the far end of the room.

Allura is shocked to see him in flesh and bone. Her eyes feel decieved for the shortest of moments, her aloof gaze brightening with shock and intrigue once he is allowed in. But she isn't so shocked that she misses the way that her people looked upon him with reverence as he was escorted to her, and she feels as if she's taken a shot of vitriol when she remembers what he'd done.

With the doors closed and everyone gone, he is silent. His head is bowed and his eyes are closed. He seems to be awaiting something-- a scream, a shout, a curse, a hit, an act of absolute outrage. And he seems accepting of it. Allura is tense on her throne as she watches him. There's a crinkle in her brow as she lets him wait, anticipate a lashing that will not come. It is a silent torment, a perfect, merciful one she deals as she ponders what to do with him.

Lotor is a blight in her halls, she can't help but notice; he's a big spot of darkness on Altea's bright aqua and silver throne room embellished with gold. His armor is damaged from battle, not grungy or very dirty, but scuffed and in shambles upon his large frame. It contrasts with the immaculate of everything around him. Allura almost frowns; Lotor coming to her unpolished? undignified? There is something about it that is simply surreal. Even if he knows that such an act to a royal of Altea is considered humbling and a show of great trust, Lotor, ever with his conscientious mindset, would never have dared to come so disheveled before.

Allura's expression gives away nothing, but she's still wrapping her head around this-- around him here. Even the space around him seems more like a backdrop, his dark presence more pronounced on Altea. Her hands fist on the armrests of her throne as she scowls with frustration; what is she supposed to do with him?

Abruptly, Lotor's legs give. He falls to his knees before her with all the grace of a dead man. His hands plant themselves firmly against the soft aqua carpet that leads to the throne, his shaking arms the only thing keeping him from falling all the way onto the floor. Lotor can hardly feel his fingertips. His face is slack as his tired cobalt eyes stare at the floor and the rush of his hot blood sounds loud in his ears. He takes deep breaths, becomes a bit detatched for a moment, feels only his aching sternum and pathetic armor and spinning head. Too soon he is back outside with the Altean people.

_My Lord_ , they said. _Good Lord! You've returned to us at last!_ they cried. And they shed tears for him, smiled upon his looming figure with their kind, kind hearts. They reached out reverently, smally, to touch him. As if laying a hand on his body were an honor, as if they were undeserving. The Altean people rejoiced for him, for the bastard son of the tyrant of the universe who'd taken precious lives for a futile effort. For the half-breed who was only trying to save himself a piece of what he'd lost.

Lotor breaks once more on the inside, seeing their elated faces in his mind's eye, heart shattered to pieces at what he'd done.

He lowers his forehead to the ground feeling defeated-- exhausted and corrupted and in despair-- and shuts his eyes. He dares to speak.

"Your Majesty,"

His voice seems to be the only thing in him that is not damaged. Thicker than it was, a bit coarse, but not damaged. Allura hates that the sound of it is still beautiful. And she hates that his hair, fully exposed to her as it is, is still as light and lush as she remembers it. Even as a dead man alive, he manages to be sightly.

"Forgive me for coming unannounced. I was not aware before a quintant ago that I would even be living. But your Grace, I have come for good reason."

His voices echoes slightly in the empty hall, the thickness of it filling in some of the open spaces. There are extended pauses at the end of each of his sentences that are contemplative, careful. It's evidence that he truly hadn't prepared before coming to see her. Allura doesn't know how to feel about it.

"I am guilty of an unspeakable crime against Altea. In my quest of purest intentions, I have killed hundreds of my own people. As the universe is in need of me no longer, I am ready to pay the price for my actions."

Accepting the last part out loud forms a black hole in his heart. It expands rapidly, steals his breath and numbs his body from the inside out. He feels cold-- so insufferably cold. It's the end for him at last, but a bitter end; ten _thousand_ decaphoebs of fighting for peace only to fall asleep and wake up with peace made and maintained for _decaphoebs_ **without him**. He isn't needed anymore. In his despair, Lotor considers that he never was.

But then he considers where he is kneeling, and he remembers the people outside, and he says to himself no; there are things you don't regret. Many things. There are societies and planets that are still alive because of you. There are treaties forged under your name. You mattered. For ten thousand decaphoebs, while Voltron was scattered, you played your part.

And now, by Altea's hand, you will end.

"Please excuse my audacity to beg of you a mercy that I do not deserve." he says, and awaits his demise.

Lotor speaks to her with distance. Looked for, there is only the faintest hint of familiarity in his address. Allura appreciates the distance, it makes her heart hurt less at the sound and sight of him, at the one she'd loved. She feels colder. Better prepared to give him the end he needs.

It is silent for a long time as she considers.

Lotor is patient. He doesn't speak again, nor does he raise his head from the castle floor. Instead he peers down at the cerulean colored carpet through cracked eyelids, appreciates what his preservation of the Altean people has brought. He spies little flecks of gold woven into the royal walkway. Floors of silver are caught in his periphery, in the spaces between his elbows and thighs. The expanse winks at him with warm Altean sunlight. The carpet's gilded lining shimmers.

Lotor closes his eyes and breathes Altea. Unlike before when he had been breathing deeply to steady himself, he breathes to cherish the sweet aroma of Altea's atmosphere. In the castle, the air is thick and cool. It goes straight to his stomach and fills him before he exhales. It's laden with scents he can't name, Altean, foreign scents he's only dreamt of. Sweet and lulling things. He remembers the warm air of outside and how it carried the famous smell of juniperry flowers on every breeze. On his way to the castle, the Alteans had reached to place these beloved flowers on his shoulders, raised their own children to give them the pleasure. They were wonderful gifts. He had been too breathless to say thank you. Lotor wishes the wind had not blown the flowers from him.

Everything about Altea is. . . sweet and lulling. Peaceful. Beautiful.

Too good for him.

"Come up,"

The command is soft in volume but not at all kind. Lotor feels a hand on his shoulder urging him up. He stiffens under the touch at first, not expecting it. He becomes aware of the feeling of her presence and of the weight of her essence before him next; she's blinding, not unlike a supernova, and she burns just as much. Her hand is lithe but heavy with a strength and familiarity that threatens to break him. Lotor snaps out of his shock to quickly do as she asks before he is _thrown_ upright.

Lotor's back straightens as far as it can, but he stays on his knees. He doesn't dare to look up at the Queen once he's erect, but he doesn't have a choice. She takes his chin into her hand and tips his head upward. His cobalt eyes, despite himself, look alive at the sight of her.

She's more beautiful than he remembers, if possible. More regal. More true. More wise and knowing. More careful and controlling. Her new crown shines brilliantly as Altea's sun shines on her. Her hair is washed in the light of a dying star. And her eyes. . .

Oh, Allura. . .

Allura turns his head this way and that, scrutinizing him. She has an idea of what she's going to do with him, of what he can do to reimburse Altea. She's not about to kill him; she's never believed in taking away life. But he will pay the price he wants to pay so badly, and more.

His skin is unblemished. His teeth are pearly and clean. His hair is untainted. His ears, perfect. His eyes are clear. And the quintessence still leaking from his being bares his Altean marks to her-- she wonders if he knows. Allura lets the thought linger as she takes one of his hands, then the other. His hands are calloused and muscled, a bit dirty, but not unworthy. She can imagine how the rest of him fares.

She knows him intimately enough.

"On your feet."

Lotor rises. He is slow and unsteady in his ascent-- weak-- but he makes it. He comes to his full height, and each are starkly reminded of how much taller than the Queen he is. The decaphoebs have changed nothing.

Allura releases his hands. Her expression doesn't reveal anything to him, and Lotor doesn't know whether to be concerned or impressed. She briefly looks him over once more before turning her back to him and walking towards the Western Hall.

"Follow," she commands.

He does. He follows her like a slave.

She leads him down the Western Hall at a pace that suits his condition. Lotor takes this time to peer almost feebly at the high ceiling and the large, arched windows high on the walls. Sunlight spills like a waterfall into the building through crystal panes that make up diamond-shaped parts of the roof. Everything is so quiet. There are ornate designs carved into the platinum walls that look similar to the designs in Oriande. Long banners hang from the partitioning columns of archways, displaying the Altean Coat of Arms which represents the current Queen. It is a picture of strength and juniperries and honor; Lotor can see that she is a Queen hailed as a goddess of their people. It is only to be expected when the great Altean alchemy of olde has been lost to time and persecution, and she is the only living Altean with the gift.

Knights line the hall on both sides. They stand tall and respectful, gazes ever forward, but Lotor knows their eyes follow him and the Queen with rapt curiosity. It must be a wonder, Lotor thinks, for these Alteans to be in the presence of their Goddess and their God at the same time. Despite their innocence, his heart hurts unbearably at the awed looks they cannot hide, at the soft smiles upon their faces; he is unworthy of their praise, of their worship. He's never once desired to be seen as anything more than a brother to them.

But even as he stands with soot-covered armor that is in pieces on his body and limps behind the Queen's tail like a wounded pet, they are in awe of him.

Allura eventually leaves the central hall of the West Wing by turning north into a slimmer hallway. Fewer Knights stand along these walls, and the ceiling is lower with no windows to the outside. There are many pentarch-shaped doors, each uniform and without any markers but a vertical golden bar on the front. Lotor recalls his research and remembers that the bars signify whether or not the room is occupied. If the bar is vertical, no one is using the room, and if it is horizontal, the room is being used. Most of the rooms they pass have vertical bars.

Allura turns down yet another hall, one to the northeast. It arcs wide and has more of those large, clear windows that touch almost ceiling to floor on its outer wall. Lotor glances out briefly. He's selfish enough to wish for another breath of Altea's sweet mid-quintant air.

By the time it seems that they've made it to their destination, Lotor's right knee aches. It's nothing he can't handle, but it's also undeniably bothersome. Lotor begins to wonder if the lengthy walk around the castle grounds was meant to act as a sort of torture for him, given his current state. He does not put it beyond the Queen.

There are two Knights standing sentry in front of the door they come up to. Allura sends them away with a wave of her hand, and they bow low before doing as she says, their understandably curious eyes lingering on Lotor as they go. The door, with its vertical bar in front, slides open as the Queen steps forward. Lotor follows her in.

He hears a soft _clck_ as the door slides closed behind him; no doubt the gold bar is horizontal now. Lotor quickly assesses his new surroundings. The bed and vanity make it painfully obvious that this is a bedroom despite the other large furnishings present like the divan and the low table. It's very spacious, with gilded, lush things and a raised platform for the bed at the far end of the room. The room is clean, immaculately so. Like everything else in Altea's castle.

It's royal quarters.

And it's so obviously hers with the fragrant smell of her beloved juniperry flowers in the air, accented by something warm and lovely that Lotor could never describe but knows is Allura; it's her scent, hers only. Something sacred. The smell of it is torture to him. Lotor wonders if she knows how badly he still wants her.

Perhaps sensing his wandering thoughts, Allura beckons him further. "This way," she commands. Lotor's gaze returns to her and he follows her through another door.

The next room is almost as big as the first. A large mirror takes up the top half of the left wall, and a long, shallow marble basin sits just beneath it. Cupboards support the elongated sink. There are more platinum storages against the far wall, next to an ovular open seat. The floors are an enchanting cerulean and silver Altean marble-stone, same as the sink, with pure light-generators in the ceiling. The entire right wall is hollowed out into a chamber with a rack holding towels on the partition at its immediate left. Lotor realizes, utterly dubious, that they are in the lavatory.

He doesn't question her. When his eyes return to her from wandering, she is going through one of the cupboards at the far wall. He barely manages to catch her next order.

"Take off your things,"

Lotor does so slowly. The Queen passes him by while he's in the middle of releasing his chest plate and places a woven hamper at his side as she does. She returns to the bedroom, though Lotor doubts her goal is to give him privacy. She doesn't say whether or not she will be back, but he suspects she will.

The process of undressing is mundane but welcome. It helps keep his mind off of things he cannot have, and it brings some feeling back to his skin. He discards his vambraces and other pieces of armor in the woven hamper provided for him. His flight suit comes off without any hassle and follows his armor into the bin.

Just as he finishes, Allura returns.

In spite of himself, Lotor's eyes follow her as she crosses the room to the right wall. She's skin bare, just as he is. Her hair falls around her like a shroud of purity, full and beautiful. If she notices his staring, she doesn't mention it.

He watches as she reaches into the chamber formed in the wall and finds a sliding dial. She presses down on the rectangular slide-piece with two fingers before sliding it towards the far right. Instantly, water begins to fall from the chamber ceiling.

Allura beckons him toward her, toward the crystal rain. He goes willingly and wonders fleetingly if he's already dead.

"Your timing is almost frighteningly perfect," she says as he stands with her under the falling water. The water is, intriguingly, a temperature so perfect that he can hardly feel it touch his flesh. Enchanted, Lotor looks up at the ceiling to catch sight of the tiny holes dotted along the length of the chamber ceiling in perfect rows. "Just as you came before me, I was ready to retire and redress. Move on to other things. This is. . convenient."

He doesn't respond, he doesn't think that she wants him to. Lotor simply looks down at the floor of the marble chamber and watches with awe as the water coming from above their heads disappears into the metal. The design of the bathing apparatus seems awfully familiar to him, it's something he couldn't have forgotten easy. It's somewhat of a surprise to realize that it's an _Altean_ invention he can hardly recall.

Without warning, Allura places her hands on his shoulders. Lotor tenses slightly, but the back-and-forth motion of her hands combined with the cleaning agent on them eases his worries. He stands wordless as the Queen rubs the aromatic chemicals into every inch of his skin, shy of nothing. Lotor isn't at all bothered.

He knows her intimately enough.

Once Allura is done rubbing the cleansing oils into his skin, she retrieves a small brush from the chamber wall and scrubs him with it. She is deliberate, harshly so. It makes Lotor wonder what he is here for. She certainly isn't catering to him, such is a ludicrous thought, but what else would warrant such intense care? He can't think of it.

Then Allura takes his hand and scrubs it so meticulously, he thinks his skin might come off. It is then he realizes that she is preparing his body, like the true Ancients used to do. She would have him cleansed before doing anything else with him; make him proper for death and, if she deemed him worthy of it, burial.

When Lotor is finally clean, his lilac skin flushing magenta with a renewed, raw sensation, it is his turn to wash the Queen. It is impersonal. Lotor mimics the procedure she had used to bathe him, just as detailed though not nearly as harshly. This, too, becomes a silent torture, and Lotor understands that it is meant to be.

Their gazes meet only once, only briefly, but he sees the cold warning in her eyes, the increasing distance. This is far from amicable.

This is torture.

How much she has changed.

Their hair is cleaned, and then the Queen slides the dial on the wall back to the far left. The water stops, and they stand wet for a moment. Then suddenly, a thick blast of warm air comes up from beneath them. Lotor turns his widened eyes to the metal floor which has miraculously transformed into a copy of the ceiling with many little pores lined up in organized rows. The air floods his face and Lotor is forced to look up. He catches sight of his hair billowing out above him, whipping to and fro at the tips like the tail of a white yorlax. It and the feeling of water droplets crawling up his skin only to dissipate into nothing are as surreal as the entirety of his punishment.

Lotor, despite all that he knows, finds himself further enamored; it is remarkable that Alteans could ever install such complex facilities into buildings without major complications. They are true geniuses of ingenuity.

After they are dry and the air stops, Allura leads him out of the bathing chamber and into her bedroom. At the far end, she stops in front of an open room Lotor immediately recognizes as a closet. She motions for him to wait as she enters it, her shroud of purity following eagerly behind.

It taunts him, that shroud. With many things.

Allura returns fully robed in an ensemble that resembles a Knight's uniform. She has a plated chest and shoulders, and golden vambraces on her arms, with a golden skirt that stops at her knees in the front and stops mid-calf in the back. Underneath it all she wears a full suit of white. A short white cape hangs from her shoulders, clasped at the corners over her collar with a magnificent crystal broach. Her belt is accented with pink and so are her ankles. Her crown shines upon her brows as the sun shines on Altea.

She comes to him with an armful of silver-lined white fabric. She dresses him in the length of the fabric swiftly, looping it around his shoulder and chest and then around his hips. The process is somewhat superfluous in steps, but it makes for a lovely and sightly orientation. The dress is light and airy, like the rest of Altea. It shows much more flesh than he is used to, covering only the diagonal of his chest from shoulder to hip and stopping with pointed ends just under his knees, and he feels exposed in it, bared to the world, vulnerable. But somehow, as Allura leads him to her vanity to comb his hair with a silver torki, he finds it comforting.

Lotor cannot resist marvelling at himself in the mirror over the vanity. He can hardly recognize himself (are his eyes deceiving him, or have his Altean marks returned?), can hardly believe that the spitting image of Altea is _real_ behind him. He can hardly believe that the Queen of Altea is dressing him in fine garments and braiding his hair. He can hardly believe that he's _living_ it, even if only to die.

The Queen's fingers are quick and nimble. She makes the small braids on the edges of his temples with practiced grace. They are tucked behind his ears and tied at the ends once finished. The hair above the braids is tied off low, at the place between his shoulder blades. The hair below them is pulled back and allowed to remain free, reaching his mid back. It's an odd, unfamiliar sensation for Lotor to feel his locks brush against his skin.

Finally, surreally, the Queen places a great platinum circlet atop the crown of his head and fits two broad silver cuffs on his wrists. He raises a brow at the thin metal cuffs, all jewelry and decor, and is surprised that he isn't chained or restrained; in fact, the metal embellishings are quite comfortable, secure.

Allura is silent as she tends to his looks, just as she was silent before. But there is something slightly different about her silence now that Lotor cannot place. It's not as regular, not as fitting.

It's thick.

Because Allura, despite herself-- despite how long it's been, despite how far she's come-- cannot _not_ see the king she could have in him-- _should_ have in him. Like this, on Altea, looking absolutely brilliant, smelling of juniperries and silver lillies, he is the man he _should_ be, the one she dreamt of. The one she wants to spend this future with. The one she had believed in. The one.

Like this, he is the one she loves.

And it hurts.

Because one way or another, he'd taken the wrong path, and now he must learn to walk the right way.

Allura leads him from her chambers and into the pristine halls, trying not to think too much about it, _tired_ of despairing over it; she's spent enough time coping with who she lost. All she wants to do now is get this over with, fix the broken pieces.

As they walk, despite herself, she can't help looking at Lotor a bit longingly while his beautiful brightened eyes eagerly scan the open halls, trying to at least appreciate the side of him that has always been good. He's precious like this, she thinks, exploring the half of himself he's never truly gotten to know. Allura is enamored with him all over again at the sight. But she immediately looks away when she realizes it, her gaze turning bitter; she can't risk him seeing her affection. With Oriande gone, the only way to teach him is to play the callous ruler, to teach him the only way he seems to know how to learn.

With pain; a page from their governess' books.

_Worse before it's better._

They come to a stop in the southern end of the central east hall. Allura places a gentle hand against the large door that stands here, different from all the other doors in the new castle. She mumbles something under her breath and the doors slide open, allowing them entry. Lotor watches her and gazes inside curiously.

He takes a look around as she approaches the center of the room, eyes wide with astonishment. The ceiling is high and the windows are grand and the columns sculpted into the walls are extravagantly elegent. They are enrapturing qualities of the room, but Allura knows his wonder is directed elsewhere. She faintly hears him murmur, a thought that is likely to himself, "Princess. . ."

Her response is automatic, quick. She doesn't much think about it. "I am _Majesty_ ," she says firmly.

Lotor blinks, not realizing that he had spoken out loud. His eyes never leave the statue in the center of the room. "Of course," he says softly, "Please forgive me. . ."

He trails off, voice quiet and small. Allura almost turns to look at him and make sure that he truly is who he appears to be; does he have humility? enough. But Lotor is not small. He does not have timidity.

Instead, the Queen keeps walking. She makes it to the statue that has caught his attention and makes a point of standing by it. Lotor speaks up soon enough.

"Are you. . . _not_ going to kill me?" he asks with his eyes still looking up.

"No,"

He finally looks at her. "Then. . . the cleansing. . ."

"The Altean people worship you as a god, Lotor. You must look like one."

That is clear, Lotor thinks as he looks back up at the fifteen-stac platinum statue of himself with unadulterated disdain. His heart doesn't know whether to swell or shrivel up at the sight of it. He begins to protest. "With all due respect, your Majesty, I--"

" ** _Erti_**." the Queen commands him silent. Lotor instantly becomes perfectly so. "I do not like how the Alteans worship you, but I would like even less to rob them of their saviour or to hurt them; they are devout in their allegiance to you. And Altea has never before had such a great deity. I was not sure if I should expect insurrection in your name should I declare you a heathen, with evidence or without it, as I was absent in the key momemts of New Altea's revival. So, believing you to be dead, I saw no harm in allowing my people to keep their faith. It is a good thing,"

Allura turns fully to him then, her face an unreadable mix of several emotions. "In the construction of the new Castle of Altea, this room was dedicated to _you_. I brought you here so that you will understand what I intend to do with you."

Lotor swallows thickly and has the sudden urge to bang his head against the wall; he had been a fool. He should have seen the relief in his heart and _scrutinized_ it, not allow it to take hold. His life has never been the giving kind, only the taking. Cursed, unfortunate.

Torture.

He is standing in his own _shrine_ for Gorlok's sake, a shrine the brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers of the people he'd killed for a broken dream had built.

And to top it off, Allura's eyes are steely and cold with unmistakable hatred as she comes to him, bearing one of the many gifts that was left at his statue's feet. "If you regret your offense as much as you say," she tells him while securing the necklace around his throat, and it feels like she's shackling him, "then you will wish I had killed you,"

Lotor _hurts_.

His heart flares with pain.

And such _cruelty_ \--

He is ashamed to have not expected it.

The Princess may have been merciful and naive and full of hope and unwavering morals, but the Queen is not. Whatever happened during the war, whatever happened after peace, whatever happened while they were apart, it changed her. He had been frozen in time, in agony, stuck in what had transpired.

She had moved on.

"Now, the oils I rubbed into your skin are a rejuvination tonic I developed, so your body should be feeling better about now," she informs him as they walk, leaving the dreadful place of his worship behind. Just as she says so, Lotor's spine smooths, straightens, and he begins to feel lighter. He is once again impressed, and unsurprised that he has the headspace to be. "Straighten up," Allura says, "Our people wait eagerly for you," She is open about her bitterness as she turns around to face him, having arrived at the main doors (already? why so quickly?). Their eyes meet again, but Lotor can't hold her gaze for long with it full of love he must desperately be imagining and hate he can't bear. "Go out and see them." she finishes.

His eyes find the great central doors of the castle, the only thing between him and those people he adores so much, and for the first time since arriving, he feels hesitance.

Foreboding.

What awaits him out there? Allura had assured him on their way that the people were curious about him and would be waiting to hear from her. Surely they will rejoice, be merry. If he is indeed their god. But that is the problem.

Lotor is frozen with indecision, unsure if he should be more afraid of their ire or of their adoration.

Allura, seeing that his punishment has already begun, understands that Lotor will not be taking the first step on his own. She goes to open the doors herself. As the great entrance yields under the force of her hands, she forces herself to focus on the weight of the metal to forget how much this decision weighs on her heart. Inside, her resolve is fraying.

_It won't last long anyway,_ she tells herself. _Not really._

At least, she hopes not.

Altea is so unlike Daibazaal. It's bright and colorful without walls and a ceiling, so bright and colorful that it actually pains his eyes to look too close to the horizon line where the solar star sits fat and heavy. He's forced to look his kin in the eyes. Blessedly, they avert their eyes from his and spare him the torture of seeing their emotion. But the relief is short-lived.

"Brothers and sisters," Allura says as she steps forward to address her subjects. Her voice is great, it carries across the land all the way to the sun. Lotor sees her give a smile that, to him, is obviously strained, and he imagines it must sear her face to give. "We have been blessed with Lotor's return!"

Altea is so unlike Daibazaal. There is no great, deafening roar that shakes the ground, no raised arms, no tustle in the crowd. Everyone is simply radiant, overjoyed in energy. There are enough shining faces to blind him, and the murmurs that have erupted are easily-- almost too easily-- hushed.

When everyone is quiet, Allura mumbles something under her breath, hauntingly similar to what she'd uttered before, at the doors of his shrine. Her eyes close almost serenely as she turns and shallowly dips her head towards him. The Alteans follow her example. They bow their heads low and utter in one great murmur, _"Al otrī."_

Al otrī.

Great saviour.

Altea is so unlike Daibazaal. They stay where they are, stock still, unmoving and silent as the dead as he gazes over them. Lotor somehow makes his brain work, catches sight of Allura's narrowed eyes, and manages to give an affirmation. His voice is pitifully quiet by Galra standards, hardly his regular voice, but the people are so quiet and he's so scared that his voice sounds loud and full.

_"Treclin austiï. Mij-kin, jui drexil."_

Then and only then, at the edge of his word, do they raise their heads and let their happiness be known. Only after _he_ speaks do they raise their voices. In his name. The experience is so utterly, purely _different_ from the regular course of his life that Lotor doesn't know what to do with himself.

In all his ten thousand years of living, he's never once been _praised_.

"Go,"

Lotor blinks rapidly, his breaths coming shallow and his heart hammering in his chest. No one seems to notice his distress but _her_.

"As of now, you are to serve the Altean people as their god. Guide them, do what you can. Oriande's grace has had mercy on your heart,"

_Oriande's grace has had mercy on your heart_

Actually, it hadn't.

"So go."

Lotor glances at Allura, really latches his eyes onto her image this time. She's glowing like always, but she's staring at him with her emotions plain on her face now, unlike before. He wonders what has changed, wonders if he's seeing things.

"Go?" he almost whispers. His voice is a ghost.

"Alteans are not shy about compassion," the Queen says with soft, pitying eyes, and Lotor finds himself afraid of _her_ now, "and you walked among them, yes? I have no doubt that they wish to embrace you."

"Embrace me. . ."

Lotor's voice is gruff with emotion. He can't bear looking at Allura anymore, so he directs his gaze to the Altean people. They're still loud and merry. And if Lotor didn't know any better, he'd say they are eager. _Eager_.

"And I'm. . _alive_. . ."

He is living it. Living this dream, this torture. This vibrant and lovely suffering.

A subtle hand suddenly settles on his elbow, and Lotor quickly finds its owner. Allura. Of course it's Allura.

Her expression softens even more, if possible.

"Go." she says again.

And this time it clicks.

_Go_.

Lotor doesn't know what to say to her. He's definitely not going to tell her that he feels like he's on a pyre of a pedestal, guilty and shy. So he doesn't say anything, just blinks at her, turns away, and smiles.

He descends the stairs to the entrance of the castle and forces himself to leave Allura's sudden sympathy behind him. It was a tryst, a moment of weakness; he tells himself that it will not happen again. He must believe it.

Because he's terrified to reach ground level, to be within arm's reach of his people-- _his_ people-- he's frightened by the idea that they will embrace him and sing his praises, give him gifts, and show him love. But his fear of the Queen is greater still; loving her after all this time is tearing him apart.

He can't afford to hold on when she has already let go.

Lotor goes from one torture to another with his heart cold as stone, letting the warm butterfly touches of the Alteans burn away the feel of Allura's hands on his skin. His forced levity sears him the same way hers had.

Allura watches him go. And not for a tick does she stop thinking about what Lotor has said.

_"Treclin austiï. Mij-kin, jui drexil."_

Perhaps because he hadn't the time to acclimate and learn the modern Altean language, Lotor spoke as the royals of her time would have. At times, she still does as well. It's how she knows what the other Alteans don't; how she knows how much this hurts.

To the Alteans _now_ , it would sound as if he were saying "Think nothing of me. Friends, I feel this heavily."

But to the Alteans _then_ , they would understand, "No gratitude (unto me). My kin, I am heavy (with guilt)."

Allura bows her head as he walks away from her and into the hands of her people, murmurs of a prayer to their ancestors for wisdom, hoping she is doing this right, on her lips.


	2. He is Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are an Altean citizen fortunate enough to have the opportunity to witness the return of your god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I wanted to explore the Alteans' point of view for Lotor's sudden return. Also, if you are a girl, I would like you to imagine that you are a guy, and vice versa. I just think it will add a certain dimension (for lack of better word) to the story. Of course, you are always free to do as you please.

When a mysterious ship enamating dangerous amounts of quintessence penetrates New Altea's atmosphere and hurtles towards the ground, the Altean people are shaken. You watch the ship shoot a black line across the sky directly overhead like a bad omen. Distantly, in the expanse of the palace fields, the spacecraft hits the surface of the planet. The force is so great that you feel a slight tremor traveling up through the ground to your knees. A incandescent starlight pulsates from the crash site, washing the land around it in an almost ethereal brightness.

You share looks with those around you and exchange comments of relief that the crash had not occured in the city where you are. You're a proud jewelry vendor here in Sucili, the capital of New Altea, and it would not bode well for you if all of your work was destroyed. The others share your sentiments of course, a good number of them with families.

Despite immense Altean adaptability, the matter does not fade away. You talk with your neighbor and see what she knows, if she knows anything at all, and before you know it, almost twenty vendors are gathered in your friend's shop discussing what has happened. You are not an overly susperstitious people by any stretch of the imagination with a history deeply rooted in science, but you cannot deny the mysterious sensation looming over you all. The matter takes hold of the entire city. You turn on the spectator screen and find that the happenstance is already broadcasted to the entire world kingdom.

". . . just off the border of Altea's capital, Sucili. The royal guard have already been sent to investigate. . ."

Unlike the rest of Altea's central providences, the capital consists of a medium-sized marketplace, limited residence, and a lot of open land. The idea when rebuilding was to make the capital an extension of the castle grounds. In a sense, everyone in Sucili lives in the Queen's space. It is considered the most peaceful place in all of Altea.

So it's a bit odd for you to see it on the screen from an aerial view, a black and violet hole punched in it's upper right corner, a strange buzz coming from the reporter, through the screen, and to you. You and the others around you grow worried at the sight of the wreckage, still smoldering. Your brows furrow in slight unease as the visual on the screen changes to one on the ground, closer to the wreckage. You see movement around the ship's hull before the view is suddenly obstructed by the deep frown of a royal guard.

He tells the reporter something the microphone has trouble picking up and then the screen switches back to the news lobbyroom, the anchor explaining what happened.

This troubles you. Murmurs erupt within your friend's shop and surround you. Eventually, your curiosity gets the best of you, and you leave the store to hurry down the streets. A mass of people have already begun their own journeys, likely going to the Queen's reception garden for her comfort or going to the crash site like you. You are more motivated and race around your companions to make it.

Your end of the marketplace has always been nearest to the castle so it doesn't take long for you to cross its inner fields and reach the northeastern grounds. From the main courtyard, closer to the castle doors, you can see in passing a line of people who have come from all over Altea to bless the Queen or bring a grievance to her. You see guards escorting someone out and not allowing any others in. You wonder if this is in response to recent events or if her majesty is simply leaving the other visits for tomorrow and retiring without word of the commotion. Perhaps it's both, a coincidence.

And then you hear a name, a sacred word, from someone somewhere deep in the crowds, and your heart leaps into your mouth and your feet are moving even faster and you're hastily wishing Queen Allura the best as you pass by the castle because now you need to see. You need to see if it's true.

Lotor. . .

Abruptly, you stop. There's a wall of people in your way and not one seems to be moving anytime soon. Luckily, you're a bit tall and manage to peek over the shoulders of your peers. You see a canal formed in the center of the crowd, one that's long and stretches all the way from the castle, to where you stand, to the wreckage. The murmurs get louder and soon you hear His name everywhere.

"Lotor. . ."

"Lotor is. . ?"

". . . Lotor has returned. . ."

". . . Lotor,"

All around, it's all you can hear. You feel the late afternoon breeze pick up your tied-up hair, soft and sweet, and in a momentous tick of silence, you catch a juniperry flower petal with your cheek. It's small, seemingly insignificant. But to you, it means something. A good omen. A sign of something precious.

You reach up to take the delicate petal between your fingertips, then gently weave it into your hair-- for good luck. And as the sun settles on your brow, the smell of juniperries in your nose, you hear a great sound from the end of the crowd. You turn your head, eager to see what there is to be seen, peeking over the shoulders of your equally energized brethren.

And there He is.

The buzz that swallows the masses in His presence is contagious and you welcome it. Because your Lord, your saviour, is there in the flesh, standing amongst you all. He has just endured a mighty crash that shook the ground, and still He stands tall and true. You find yourself in awe of His stride, of His grace. You find yourself impressed by His regality and gentle stoicism. And you find yourself suddenly desperate to be closer to Him, to feel His presence like your father and your mother did before He'd gone for so, so long.

Until now, you had only heard stories. Little tales about His looming figure, and mixed heritage, and careful hand, and bellowing voice. There were times in your youth where you heard about His great intelligence and capability, how He resolved disputes and solved problems that had plagued the colonies He'd built for centuries in mere dobashes. And from what you heard, He was never able to stay in His colonies long; He came and went just long enough, hardly often enough, for the Alteans to remember who to thank for their survival. You had thought He was a legend.

You remember the light and the love your parents would exude when they spoke of His kindness and sacrifice. You remember them telling you that one day, He was sure to return. One day, when the universe was peaceful again and He no longer had to hide you away, He would bring Altea into a new age of prosperity and proudly present a new Altea to a universe deprived of it for ten thousand years.

And He would be here to stay.

You dare to take your eyes off of His image to look at some of the people around you. Dotted within the crowd, male and female alike have traces of tears on their faces, unshed tears in their eyes. Smiles of disbelief are shared with one another. Parents raise their children onto their shoulders and everyone begins clambering to get to the front.

At this point, the guards are no longer escorting Lotor, they're fighting to keep the masses at bay.

Whispers of His name turn into hymns of worship. The sound of it is almost eerie to you. If the day were not so bright and He were not so noble, it would seem as if a curse had befallen all of Sucili's people. You find yourself joining them, a hope and a levity forming in your heart that makes the words come easy. You utter them with all that you are.

"He is here, He is here, He is here. . !"

Different voices. Different tones. Different volumes. Different ages. All uttering the same thing, all in on the same feeling.

A guard pushes against the people in front of you and you realize that you've been paying too much attention to the people around. Your eyes snap towards the guard just in time to see Him walk past, His gait steady and His stride long. The wind picks up His hair softly as the people raise their hands towards Him, daring to touch Him, eager to place sweet flowers on His shoulders. The image is just short of ethereal. Perhaps if His clothes were not damaged from the wreck, it would be.

In the end, none of it matters.

You're a bit overwhelmed. His name is heavy on your tongue, but you can't utter it; you yearn to lay your hand upon His imposing form, to gift Him a juniperry from the fields in reverence, but your arms are lead; you're frozen with astonishment. You can only watch between heads and over shoulders as His greatness passes you by. You watch His towering form until He disappears in the distance and the masses converge, following behind.

The entire town of Sucili follows at His heels, as close as they can get.

Except you. You stay stuck in place, watching Altea's prized juniperry flowers with regretful, wishful, unseeing eyes-- regretful of passing up the opportunity, wishing you could have it back, unable to look beyond the glorious trail that He has left. The flora sway gently in the early breeze. You think of how much they remind you of His hair.

-: : /\ L - O T R Ī : :-

Queen Allura is young, but that is part of why she is revered; she has been through so much in such little time. She has not only witnessed first-hand the fall of Altea, but she has also perservered to fight in the war for peace, emerge triumphant, and pick up where Lotor had left off in His rebuilding of Altea. And her ties to the decaphoebs before even Lotor's birth make her the only Altean alive who fully understands the alchemy lost to time.

Many revere her as something of a Goddess in her own right, so the sight of her Majesty beside His greatness is a comforting one indeed. It tells of an oncoming of age of flourish and fortune. You certainly believe so.

The two of them are unendingly kind and giving. It's the first quintant of their parade across New Altea in celebration of Lotor's arrival, but it's not just a parade; Queen Allura and Lotor have made it clear that they intend to give back to the people, invent a new custom of giving and care. You watch the parade from where you stand in the venue in Sucili, Flugen Ba, amongst your brethren.

You hear talk around you, talk with your spouse and your child that's old enough to speak. You're all excited about the dubbing of this once regular quintant as a new holiday. Your spouse holds your infant child in their arms while you raise your four-decaphoeb old onto your shoulders to see the parade. Above you, your four-decaphoeb old holds the gift you have for your leaders in their little hands.

Your smiles are bright as you exchange excited looks, brimming with hope. The Queen and Lotor have made it known that they can only accept so many gifts directly, and that they desired for the Alteans to gift amongst themselves as well. Only the lucky will be able to hand their treasure over to the Queen's or Lotor's hands with their very own. You, like so many others, hope for that luck.

Flugen Ba is an open venue, the second most popular on all of Altea. There is hardly a building structure to it. Three tall walls stand perpendicular to each other on open emerald grassland, forming three fourths of a square and resembling an open box. The Queen's banners hang from these walls in huge iterations of the original coat of arms.

It's custom to wear the monarch's colors when their banner is present at any significant gathering, so the crowd is full of magentas and delicate pinks and white and gold. Silver has recently been added to the list of colors despite it not having a place on the Queen's coat; in honor of Lotor, it has become a permanent formal and respectful color to be worn.

Beneath your feet is nothing but grass, cut short within the area of the three enormous walls that make up the structure of the venue. The streets of the city go around Flugen Ba to avoid dissecting its inner space, though there is a soft and wide trail that leads to it. The Queen and Lotor come to you all from this trail, guards on hovercycles escorting them and making a path for them within the crowd in Flugen Ba's space. The Altean people erupt with cheers as soon as they catch sight of their leaders.

As they approach the center of the venue, you swear that His gaze falls on you, and He smiles at you. Naturally, your own smile brightens and grows ever wider. You wave to Him, knowing He will hardly notice you with so many people around, and He waves back with grace, addressing the populace as a whole, though you wish that He would recognize you as an individual-- like so many others, no doubt. At the thought, you feel the juniperry petal still woven into your hair since that first day you saw Him and have hope that it may really happen someday.

Quiet greetings are made by both leaders as they grow nearer to their destination. Each of them has their attention on the people of Sucili respectfully, though for a short tick, you think that you might see the Queen glancing Lotor's way somewhat amorously while He isn't paying attention. The emotion is clear to you, what with you having your own love.

How curious.

It hasn't been long since Lotor's arrival, a phoeb or two at best, but whispers among the Alteans in Sucili have emerged regarding His relationship with Queen Allura, and you've learned that you're not the only one thinking about it. That their union might be on the horizon. Some think it's only natural, others think it far-fetched. Most, however, believe it to be unsavory despite Altean value of love and good feelings. You agree with the latter despite your spouse's favor for the former; the binding of religion to state does not sit well with you. Regardless of opinions, however, you know that most will respect any matrimony between the two if it comes. None will be under the impression that their decision is unwise, still beholden to and reverent of them both.

Queen Allura gestures for silence once she and Lotor have successfully made it to the center of Flugen Ba's field. Silence comes at her behest.

"Before we begin our exchanges," she begins, as perfectly regal as her banners suggest, "I would like to first make on official statement regarding Lotor's status here with us,"

A slight pause, some open anticipation. While you know that the Queen would not needlessly stretch the silence on, it feels like an eternity before a large grins breaks her face of elegance to replace it with a warm radiance, before she finally confirms the hopes of her people.

"He is here to stay,"

There are cheers.

It surprises even you, how loud they are. It takes actual moments for her Majesty to gain control of the crowd again. You listen eagerly to what she has to say, your child's delicate weight comforting on your shoulders.

"Today we celebrate his return to us and the strengthening of a new era. From here onward, this quintant will be known as Ruigtant, and every decaphoeb on this quintant we will exchange gifts with those we wish to bless or forgive. This parade will not be annual, but this custom of giving will make up for that. This being said, this quintant is not for speeches. We will move forward with the exchanges; let it be known what your gift is for."

The masses move all at once, turning towards each other and lurching forward simultaneously. You meet gazes with your spouse and, with a gentle smile, bid them goodbye for a short while while you take your eldest child with you to bestow a blessing upon your god. The thought amuses you, knowing it normally to happen the other way around. It pleases you too, for the same reason.

You get make it to the center, where you can see Him towering above everyone and receiving a few gifts from others on the opposite side of Flugen Ba. This means you that don't get to give your gift to Lotor directly like you wanted, that your child must hand the light silver box into a guard's hands instead. But that's okay.

The guard accepts your blessing, swears with a silent smile to give it to Him, and it is enough for you to know that He will receive it.

"Come, _bebi_ ," you tell your child on your shoulders once the gift has been given, looking up to see their round face peering down at you, small hands holding your head now, "let's find your friends. Who knows, you might even get a git!"

Your child grins wide with an eager giggle, developing words of approval mixing with your mirth as you navigate the masses to first find your spouse.

-: : /\ L - O T R Ī : :-

It's a calm afternoon in your jewelery shop. Solar light spills in through your windows, tinting everything peach. You're busy polishing a circlet you've just made for a client coming in to pick it up the quintant after this. Lost in your tedious ministrations, you lose awareness of some things around you.

"I was told that you are the one to thank for this gift,"

Someone's come in without you noticing. At the sound of the voice, you set aside your polish and cloth and take a brief moment to admire your work, then lift your head to see who has visited you. Your heart skips a beat as you see Lotor standing in the doorway of your shop, a halo of Fari's mid-quintant light shining around Him.

He comes closer, stops at your front desk, and you see that He is pointing to a broad-banded golden necklace on His neck that has a precious spriggan stone in it. You blink with a start.

"Oh--!" you nod nervously, bowing your head and averting your eyes from His out of respect. Your hands clutch the gold circlet you were just polishing. "Oh, yes. Yes, I made it."

"You have exemplary craftsmanship."

"Thank you, my Lord. I--" you falter because of your nerves, and you have to close your eyes to force yourself to calm down, "I am honored."

"No,"

Your heart plummets into your stomach. Before you can apologize and ask what needs to be changed, what He requires of you so that the necklace might be satisfactory, you feel a gentle touch on your shoulder. Your gaze catches sight of it from the corners of your eyes, and you can instantly feel your eyes widen at the lilac color.

But you can't react to His touch, He's leaning down to find your eyes, to capture your gaze with His. Once He has you, you can't get away.

" _I_ am honored," He says, great voice thrumming through you, cobalt eyes searching yours, "to be worthy of your gratitude. Thank you for this gift."

You nod, because that's all you _can_ do. Lotor returns to His full height and you return to yours, your gaze still glued to His in awe. Though your height does not compare, you feel as if you are standing together, on the same level. His charm has a way of doing that. His warm gaze and gentle hand (just like in the stories, you can't help but marvel) make you feel worthy of standing by His side.

His smile is so soft and kind, and you can tell that He really cares about you.

"What is your name?" He asks.

Your name?

"My name?" you ask.

He chuckles lightly, amused by you. He nods once. "Yes."

Embarrassingly, you are a little slow on the uptake, still entranced by His eyes. You blink and snap yourself out of your stupor. "Yes-- yes, my name. I'm from a lower class family in the eastern provinces, so I only have one,"

You tell Him your name, and He listens intently. As He nods with a bit of a faraway look, you dare to think that Lotor is making a genuine effort to remember you. Regular, middle-class you. The thought makes your heart leap with joy.

"A wonderful name-- even if only just one," He jests, and before you know it, you're smiling. He seems pleased by that. "It has been a great pleasure meeting you."

You nod in agreement, knuckles aching as your hands stay firmly clenched into fists at your middle, the circlet in your grasp. You've been so nervous this entire time, but only now do you realize how _tense_ you've been; you relax your hands some, make their hold on your golden circlet not so tight. And just as well.

He holds His great hand out for you to take.

You take it graciously, reverently, and His smile grows.

"Take care." He says.

"And you as well, my Lord,"

You watch as he turns around to leave your shop. You think about how graceful and long His strides are as he goes, how His body fills the entire frame of your door. When His greatness finally steps outside, you swear that you see a trail of juniperries following him, but it fades away when the door is shut, as if the wind is blowing the souls of lost juniperries to Hava for the passed to enjoy.

For many dobashes after Lotor has gone, you can't stop thinking about the gentleness of His touch and the kindness in His smile. How much He obviously cares for you even though the two of you had never met before then. You find yourself staring listlessly at the entrance to your shop, wondering if He will visit you again soon, or at all. You hope so. You want to give Him another necklace, to have another conversation. You want to see His smile again.

You look down at your hands, at the circlet in your fingers. While you consider making Lotor another, one much greater, you notice a hint of movement in the corner of your eye. Small. Delicate. Halting.

You look down at your counter to see what it is.

A juniperry petal. It must have come in when Lotor did.

You smile and tuck it into your hair, confident that you will see Lotor again.


	3. Good Graces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amends are made, gifts are given, and Lotor and Allura become friends again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We now continue with our regularly scheduled program.

"You should know that I am sorry for leaving you there,"

"The Rift?"

"Yes."

Lotor looks contemplative; not exactly upset but certainly not enthused. Perhaps begrudgingly forgiving. Allura hopes so.

It's been a good two and a half phoebs since Lotor's arrival to New Altea. His punishment in servitude continues, but it won't continue eternal. There have been moments, times of progress and healing, along the way. Allura has made efforts to slowly shape his servitude into a position of honor rather than a mental torture. Her goal has never been to simply have him suffer; she wants him to truly regret what has been done, then work to make it right. Feel the pain she feels in her heart a hundred-fold to dissuade the thought of ever doing something like that again. Then mend their bond with proper empathy.

The Galra are far from being the only society that uses pain as a teacher. Though called by a different name, Altea employs its own-- albeit less intense-- Palen Bol with its adolescents. She can't exactly say that hers is less intense in this instance, or that Lotor is an adolscent, but she's employed it all the same.

To teach him and to help her to forgive, not to forget.

This being, it only seems fair that she apologize for condemning him to the agony of the Rift. For whatever little her apology is worth.

"You have little to apologize for, your Grace," Lotor mumbles thoughtfully. His gaze goes to the sky, dangerously close to where Fari, Altea's sun star, hangs overhead. "I admit it. . . was not pleasant, but it gave me some time to. . think."

"Think?" Allura asks gently. She hopes she isn't prodding too much.

"Reclaim. Consider. Reflect, as it were," his eyes find hers again and Fari's bright morning shine turns his cobalt eyes into mesmerizing crystals. Lotor's pause is drawn out as they peer at each other pensively, the wind picking up their hair and blowing Lypix lilly petals onto their blanket. The emerald grass sways lightly at the tips. Lotor's lips purse as he picks his next words carefully. "I. . . regret a lot of things."

Allura lets the words hang. She waits patiently, watches as his eyebrows furrow with trepidation and his crystal eyes reflect Fari's light in forlorn fractiles. "The. . agony reminded me that I don't want the colonies to be one of them."

Allura sighs silently. Her heart feels one long, hard _throb_.

"I should thank you--"

" _Don't_."

Lotor blinks at her, looking openly confused. He's been doing that a lot lately-- being open. It makes Allura feel worse since she hasn't been very honest with him.

"Do not thank me for leaving you there," she demands, voice harder than she intended. She has to look away from him when stinging hits her eyes. "The decision haunts me to this day."

"I deserved it-- needed it. After the way I responded--"

Allura scoffs. "Please. You had every right after I lost my bearings first. The way I turned on you. . ." she mumbles the last miserably under her breath, glaring at the ground, "I've regretted losing my head since the moment you were taken from the ship."

Lotor is silent after that. He stays that way, and the wind picks up in a strong, full gust of warm air to fill the silence before settling down again.

Perhaps too honest.

"In any case, we were both out of line then," Allura continues (no turning back now), and she turns to find his face again. Lotor looks back at her with an unreadable expression, but at least the tension in his brow has eased. "I hold no ill will towards you for what transpired. But the second colony. I am. . . learning to amend what happened there. What you did."

Lotor tilts his chin down at an intrigued angle and the light from Fari hits his irises _just_ right once more. They shine like a teleduv submerged at the bottom of the bluest ocean, blinding, and Allura almost gasps. She hardly catches what he says next.

"Why?"

Allura softens.

"You were passionate-- _are_ passionte. I can see that. Your passion turned to desperation when your father came too close. You made a hard decision. I fault you for none of that. And I. . . I forgive you for not knowing any better. In your absence, I have had some time to think as well," Allura falters as his eyes flicker with a shadow of something she can't place, and she immediately wants to know what he's thinking-- how he feels. She continues despite it. "And your. . misfortune in Oriande always seemed to be the heart of things. I realized that life surely had a different meaning to you than it did to me. Not that you didn't care about it, but. . . your own life. . . were you willing to give it?"

"I could not. There was too much left for me to do. And even if there wasn't, the Alteans. . ." Lotor frowns, his eyes looking down, his claws nipping the blanket. "They needed me. At least, they did then. Before you. And Voltron. I had no idea. . ."

Allura sees the tip of one of his fangs lightly worry his bottom lip before receding and allowing a frown to mar his face; she hates how uncomfortable she's obviously made him. But this is a conversation that needs to be had.

"If I had known," Lotor continues, "I'd like to think that I would have. But that is perhaps giving myself too much."

"And what about now?"

He looks up at her. "What _about_ now?"

"Would you give your life to save another's?"

Lotor looks out across the field, over the slope of the hill they're on.

". . .I do not think I will ever be as selfless as you, your Majesty. But for _them_ ," he nods towards the residence area of Sucili, hair fluttering, glancing at her once more with a hesitance clear in his face as he measures his words, before finally adding, "and for you," softly, as if the words were something delicate, "I would do anything."

Anything.

"I take it this punishment of mine was meant to teach me that," he says knowingly, "What life means to you."

"Yes," Allura tilts her head to the side to peer up at him curiously, still recovering from his admittance to be willing to sacrifice himself for her, "and whatever more." she says.

Lotor raises a single brow at her. Allura actually giggles at his response, unable to help it, violet earrings bouncing tantalizingly with each bubble of mirth that escapes her. He feels his heart lurch forward in his chest, as if it's trying to escape him and capture some of the joy she feels. He suddenly wants to whisk her away from the throne and have her for himself.

"You suffered enough in the Rift, and you've learned your lesson," Allura says once she's calmed, though her radiant smile remains, "I want you to enjoy this."

". . . Enjoy?"

"Yes,"

Allura looks into his gaze again. And this time, _her_ eyes are incandescent with Fari's shine. Blue Altean skies of peach and white shone in each iris.

"I forgive you, Lotor."

-: : /\ L T E /\ : :-

Their picnic in the morning is not the only time that they see each other; Allura makes time. She's determined not to waste anymore time away from him now that they've made amends. She misses the long conversations they would have. The pleasure of simply being with one another. It's something she wants back even after all this time.

It's early evening, Allura and Lotor are situated in the royal study. Fari's golden glow flushes the room in opulence through the crystal pane window they sit by. On the small table with seats for two is an herb case, a pot of hot water, and two cups, one for each of them. They've made their tea the way that they like it. Allura and Lotor sit across from each other with nothing but silence in between them as Allura works on a holopad, going over some recent statistics about the kingdom that her historian has brought to her.

She hums thoughtfully once she comes across some intriguing information, breaking the silence, and blows up the screen for Lotor to see. "As I expected," she says, pointing to a specific figure and watching as his cobalt eyes are drawn to it, "your return is a good thing; crime on Altea has dropped by an astounding margin."

"Crime?" Lotor inquires innocently, looking up to peer curiosly at the stats on her board. He hasn't much considered Altean misdeed, it seems.

Allura raises a bemused eyebrow. "Altea has always been known for its irregularly low conflict rates, but we are not perfect, you know."

Lotor blinks. Allura swears there's the tiniest hint of red in the tips of his ears. "Of course," is his response, though it's absent of any true acceptance, and Allura begins to wonder what his impression of Alteans actually _is_. As she does, returning her holopad to normal size, Lotor goes back to sitting in idle, watching Fari lower itself onto the horizon, his hands settling on either side of his warm tea. Allura quickly finds herself considering him instead of her work, as she has found she is wont to do in recent days.

He seems to be faring quite well now. There's hardly any evidence he feels uncomfortable or perturbed, just the slight crinkle in his brow as he becomes lost in his musings, a sign that he hasn't forgotten. And unlike his first day on New Altea, he sits comfortably wherever he is. With the townsfolk, the nobility, the elderly, her; he is in a constant state of peace and reflection.

What she'd wanted for them both eventually; to forgive but not to forget.

Eyes scanning his handsome profile for the nth time, Allura notes with a certain flutter in her chest that these days he wears a lot of jewelry. She knows it's all from her subjects; at the end of each day, he goes to his shrine in the East Wing and sits in the room full of incense, looking at each and every gift he's received-- new and old-- and chooses a new ensemble of sparkly jewels and gold and silver to wear the next morning, let their people know that their gifts are received and appreciated. The gesture warms her heart, and, if she is being honest, serves as an. . . _enticing_ complement to his beauty.

Allura muses curiously that the flicker of abashedness which had flared in her stomach whenever she thought of Lotor in such a way has gone; she's grown out of her bashfulness concerning her attraction to him, unashamed. He is indeed very attractive by Altean standards, and they've been intimate with each other enough times for it to not matter anymore. Besides, whether he is privy to her appreciation or not, she likes to think that he wouldn't mind.

"What's on your mind?" he asks suddenly, no doubt noticing her staring. Allura wonders what he thinks of it.

She smiles. "What's on yours?"

Lotor smirks slightly in amusement. "You first, your Majesty."

Allura sighs almost wistfully and takes her warm cup into her hands. She cradles it close arbitrarily, simply a being of warmth and comfort. Then she shrugs some with a loose hum, relaxed. "Well, if you must know, you're quite pretty."

The blush that manifests on Lotor's face is instant, flushing his lilac cheeks with violet. His eyes, wide, look at Allura with a surprise the queen finds almost cute. But Lotor is quick to compose himself when he sees her almost mischevious smile, determined not to embarass himself.

"Oh? I've--" Lotor coughs into his fist and looks back out of the window, his features schooled, though the blush remains on his face (Allura is more brazen than he remembers). "I've never been called. . . _pretty_. . before."

"No?"

"Never."

"Well, you are," Allura says, this time making sure he _knows_ it, because it is true, and she wonders why she hadn't told him this before. "And I must confess that I was appreciating how _sparkly_ you've been recently. I can't help but think that you might have more jewelry in your possesion now than even _I_ do."

Lotor glances at himself a bit self-consciously, fluster gone; he's never been one to flaunt. Anything. Not unless doing so would provide him with some sort of tactical advantage. He feels heavy everyday covered in fine metals and precious gems, both in the literal and figurative sense, and the idea that he might be wearing too much too often is something he constantly worries about. He touches a rich blue stone the color of his eyes and the size of the pad of his thumb with careful claws, the corners of his mouth downturned.

"Is it too much?"

"No, not at all," Allura reassures, her heart swelling with warmth, "your intentions are clear in your manners. And I must admit that I. . well, I like to see them on you."

"Hm," he hums thoughtfully. He touches the shell of his left ear, ornate with several earpieces, and seems to consider them.

He's wearing a lot of silver today. Allura thinks it complements his hair and teeth. And his claws too, well-manicured as they are and finally bereft of the gloves that used to cover them; they are surprisingly pearly.

"What were you thinking about?" she asks, hopefully changing the subject to something he's more comfortable with.

"Fari," he answers. His gaze goes back out the window, far away. The look in his eyes is familiar, a look she's only seen him with: like he can see into the future.

"What about it?" she inquires.

"It's. . . have you ever seen a supernova, Majesty?"

"Yes."

"Fari is far too young, and yet it shines as if perpetually on the brink of exploding," Lotor's lips pull into an awed smile, "It's fascinating." he says.

"You see Altea in it,"

He glances at Allura's knowing grin with one of his own, his expression soft and somewhat guilty; it would seem that they are alike in the feeling. "I see Altea from above," he says fondly, "and I see a reflection of Fari's brilliance. A bright people with so much to offer. I think about it quite a bit."

Allura nods, her own gaze going out the golden window. "As I understand it."

Lotor doesn't mention that also he sees every bit of the Queen in Fari's blinding shine whenever he looks at the sky.

"You've done an amazing job cultivating this new world, Allura," he says instead, just as softly as his face looks, and at this, Allura flushes, "Not long ago the Altean people were still finding themselves and struggling to become the image their ancestors had envisioned. You have provided them with so much more. I am eternally grateful to you for loving them when I could not."

As she always does when Lotor surprises her with an expression of deep sentiment regarding his past with the Alteans, Allura begins to feel elation, guilt, and a love that burns so fiercely she fears she'll collapse and past be _damned_ kiss Lotor full on the mouth.

He speaks of the Altean people as if they are his _children_. And in an odd way, Allura thinks, they _are_. He's old enough to have found the Alteans scattered across the sector of their universe, fostered them, and watch as the generations came and went and as Altean society grew and grew. He's known some Alteans from the moment they were born to the moment they died; Lotor has even regaled to her the shocking experience of being asked to assist with an Altean woman's birth, so faithful and loving was the family of him that they were convinced his hand would bless the baby.

It's heart-wrenching to hear his stories, both heart-warming and bitter, but she finds that she can't get enough of them.

She simply can't help what she says next.

"Some of them call you Father, you know." she tells him. Her voice is honeyed, fond. She smiles at him.

His reaction isn't what she expects.

"I've heard," Lotor almost spits.

Allura peers at him sideways, her brows furrowed as she tries to find his eyes. "You're. . . upset?"

"I don't deserve it, Allura," he looks at her, "I've been no better a father than Zarkon."

"You are so much better than Zarkon, Lotor."

"Do you really believe that?"

Allura hears him, and she knows that he doesn't ask because he truly doubts it. He asks because he doubts _her_ , because there's more that she hasn't apologized for or reassured him against; words she hasn't absolved. Allura feels his disbelief with a powerful regret, the corners of her mouth downturning in a frown.

She leans forward and takes his soft hand in hers. Despite his displeasure, Lotor holds her hand back, his long thumb pressing comfortingly against her knuckles. He looks down at their joined hands pensively. Allura places a gentle touch to his chin to make him look at her, her eyes looking straight into his own with warm conviction.

"I _do_ believe it." she says. She wills him to believe her.

Lotor's blue eyes search her gaze for sincerity. Allura doesn't know if he finds it, but that's all that she feels-- sincerity. Truth. She presses her palm flat against the angle of his chin and wills him to understand it.

His cobalt eyes come closer, shining like shards of scultrite with violet hearts. Fari looks good in his eyes, she thinks; beautiful, just like they did in the morning.

They come closer still, growing in beauty as they do. Allura feels mesmerized, drawn. Her eyelids fall slowly as she presses her stomach against the edge of the table in order to lean foward even further, and she can feel Lotor's body bending towards her, sloping nearer. The blue of his eyes is slowly curtained too.

There's a feather-light brush of skin against skin, lips against lips--

"Your Majesty,"

Allura starts.

She knows it should be no question, but she can't decide whether or not she wants to ignore the call and kiss Lotor, or stop and tend to her duties. In the end, kiss Lotor wins, but Lotor backs away before she can act on it, making the decision for her. He smiles softly at her pouting face, a hint of amusement in his eye. Allura wants to kiss him even more now. She gets lost in him again.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," the attendant says.

And Allura starts again.

She sighs; right, they're not alone anymore. She has duties to attend to. People to serve. A world to rule.

"No worries, Falil," Allura says kindly, turning in her seat to look at her attendant standing by the door with his hands clasped politely behind his back. She smiles gently, "Please, what is it that needs my attention?"

A dark-skinned Altean, Falil's passion-orange marks are bright and beautiful on his stern face. Their unique color shimmers in Fari's warm light, coloring his expression something softer than usual. His eyebrows rise with a careful bit of amusement. "Your ship, Majesty. It's at the central docking bay, waiting for you. It is prepared to depart as soon as you're aboard, as requested."

Allura's eyebrows knit together. She looks as perplexed as Lotor feels. "Depart for what?" she asks.

One of Falil's eyebrows falls, leaving the other raised in curiousity. "Your meeting with the IPA?" he says.

Allura jolts upright onto her feet, looking frazzled and probably alarming Lotor in the process. She doesn't really have the headspace to care.

"Oh stars, that's _now_?!"

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Goodness, I've forgotten to pack,"

"Coran and your dressers have already taken care of your apparel, and all supplies for the meeting and your basic needs have been taken care of. You are all that is needed."

Allura sighs with audible relief. "Good, splendid. Thank you, Falil, I'll be there shortly."

"If I may," Lotor begins, rising to his feet beside her with a bit of urgency, "what is the IPA?"

Allura feels a little nervous at the innocuous query. While the IPA is certainly no secret, she fears how Lotor will feel about her not telling him about it; it's something she should have brought up ages ago, and most definitely with _him_.

"My Lord," Falil addresses Lotor with a bow of his head, "the IPA is the Intergalactic Peace Association. They have maintained order and harmony between all member planets and systems for the last twelve decaphoebs. The association was founded just after the Great War ended, and is now spearheaded by former Paladins of Voltron and Coalition members, including her Majesty."

Lotor glances sidelong at Allura, who avoids his gaze, before asking, "May I attend this meeting?"

Allura blinks. She feels relief flood her system at the neutral tone to his voice because that means, at least for now, that while he has certain feelings about her withholding the information from him, he isn't angry with her. She clears her throat a bit conscientiously still.

"I think it is certainly time that you attended. But I want to know how you feel," the Queen turns to her attendant, "Falil."

"Me, your Grace?"

"Yes. If Lotor comes to the meeting, he will be a representative of Altea. Do you agree, as an Altean, to have him as your image?"

"I believe that I speak for all of Altea when I say that His Greatness is always welcome to represent us. But," Falil gives his attention to Lotor again, bringing his hands from behind his back to press his palms together, "I don't presume to know how to tell you to spend your time, my Lord."

"Nonsense," Lotor says, and he is far from unkind. Allura even thinks that she might see a shimmer in his eyes. "I have far too much time. I would like to be there."

"Then it would be an honor, my Lord, to have you."

"It is settled, then." Allura declares. She primly straightens her gilded white sundress and begins to prepare herself mentally for the movement ahead. "Falil, please have someone come and take away the tea. Lotor, come with me."

Falil bows to her. "As you wish,"

Allura leads Lotor through the ornate double doors from her study, into the open castle halls. Her pace is brisk, but Lotor's long legs have no trouble keeping up with her at his regular pace.

"You did not tell me of the IPA," he says once they are alone.

Allura winces. "Would you believe me if I said I forgot to?"

"Not for a second."

Allura smiles. "You know, I never missed that about you," she says, "it ruined surprises."

Lotor, not all that angry to begin with and wanting to avoid even small arguments, accepts the shift in conversation. "Well you've surprised me this time," he tells her.

"You cannot tell me that you hadn't already formed your own conclusions about today's peacekeeping," Allura remarks, "The news of the IPA is not a surprise to you; it is impressive at best."

Lotor chuckles, the levity between them nearer to the way it used to be than ever before. He relishes it. "And you implicate that _I_ am too perceptive."

"Well, you are."

"I did not deny it. I just think you should know that you are not the only one who struggled with surprises."

Allura looks at him then, a bright smile on her face. "Oh?"

"Surely you were aware that I hadn't brought you to Canolus to simply stargaze?"

Allura shot him a look. "Or to Fle'ir to study ancient ruins?"

Lotor raises a brow. That was exactly what he'd brought her for. "Did you not like it?"

"No, I loved it."

"Then. . ?"

"I just mean that not all of your surprises were a surprise; we knew each other too well. We still do."

Lotor nods to her with a gentle look that's almost nostalgic. "Indeed."

Then again, Allura thinks, maybe not; Lotor has lived over ten thousand decaphoebs of life, and she is only privy to the latest eighteen. In terms of experience, she knows next to nothing about him. And he hadn't even been born until after Altea fell and the war began, so he knows nothing of her life before. Their personal lives were shaped by the war also, so anything they might have done in peace while they were together was warped into something else that they might not have done otherwise. Allura wonders if she should ask about his life before they'd met, if it would be okay. But pursuing that thought will have to wait; they've arrived to their destination already.

"Lotor," Allura starts, feeling giddy, her hands on the handles to the doors in front of her, "welcome to your new rooms."

-: : /\ L T E /\ : :-

Lotor steps in and looks around.

He honestly doesn't know what to say.

It's not a fantasy, but it is. He's much too old to really be blown away by any degree of splendor, but this isn't just _any_ splendor, it's Altean, and it's _his_. This is his room, his furniture, with his things; his Galra obsidian and his Altean sapphire; his spriggan and his sprite. And as he walks about the commons area in front, he actually spots small things of his own from before landing on New Altea, like his maps and starcharts on the walls and some of his mind games on the low table.

He stops at the table when another item catches his eye, winking purple at him in the late daylight. Lotor picks up the little violet and black paperweight made of tough stone from on top of the dark table. He stares at it in a daze, rolling the unique shape of it over in his hands. Once he's confirmed that it's real, he can't believe it; he'd thought that he lost it forever.

The last piece of Daibazaal.

Lotor looks to Allura, who is still by the door.

"How did you get this?" he breathes.

Allura walks all the way into his room, closing the doors behind her. She stops just a few paces away from him.

"When the war ended, the Blade of Marmora took ownership of all Galra resources," she starts, her fond gaze on the paperweight Lotor holds. "They planned to turn what remained of the empire into a republic, and to use the new resources at their disposal to support the economies devastated by the war. With the capital ship also under the Blade's control, I was allowed clearance to traverse it and check what I needed to. I was allowed first on all of the cruisers as well, as I requested,"

"Despite our falling-out before the end. . . I wanted to preserve you-- your _things_. I admit that I didn't even know what I was going to do with all of it at the time, but. . . I had a feeling that it was wise to collect them. I kept them in storage here, in the new Castle, where they have been properly cared for. And once we made amends, I began a project."

"My rooms." Lotor concludes.

"Yes."

"You moved all of my things in here?" Lotor wonders aloud, looking up and all around, still in a daze. The ceilings are high and the curtains are black and the walls are platinum and the carpets are blue. Violet and gold accent the lavish things, and all of his room stands washed in Fari's radiance from the large window above. He is elated.

"Well, not everything," Allura admits reluctantly, "but a good deal of it, yes," She pauses, mouth silently open for a few seconds as she considers what she'll say next. Her mouth closes as Lotor puts the rock back down on his table, then opens again with words. "Do you like it?"

Lotor wrenches his gaze from the window and smiles at her. "It's lovely."

Allura visibly relaxes. But as Lotor makes his way into his sleeping quarter, she tenses up again.

"It's not finished," Allura warns as he runs his claws over a soft Altean comforter lined with Wyx fur-- another wonder, something only found on Daibazaal, "I wanted to wait a while longer before I brought you but you can't go to the meeting in your casual attire and I thought-- _oh_!" the queen exclaims as she remembers what they have come for, "I almost forgot, you need to get ready! Come, let me show you,"

Allura takes Lotor by the arm and drags him towards a set of double doors across the room from the head of his bed. Lotor blinks a bit owlishly at her, his mouth threatening to hang open with genuine surprise.

There's _more_?

Allura places him in front of the doors before pausing with her hands on their handles, looking back at him a bit nervously, and ceremoniously pulling them open. The extension is revealed to be a walk-in closet. And what's inside is nothing more than what is expected of a closet.

It shocks him nonetheless.

"I will admit it, Allura," says Lotor with a brilliant smile, a new happiness in his voice, "I am surprised."

Along two parallel racks, one on each long wall, are just enough tabards, coats, and pants to probably last only a phoeb, but they are not just _any_ tabards, _any_ coats, or _any_ pants. They're all of unique design, a mesh of soft, lush Altean and unmistakable, severe Galra. Harmoniously combined. Brilliant.

"And. . . do you like them?" Allura asks. Her voice is a little quiet, a bit unsure. Timid. Different from the Queen he is learning.

Lotor looks at her as if she has lost her mind.

"Do I like them?" he says somewhat exasperatedly, "Allura, they're amazing. You've outdone yourself."

Allura's cheeks flush, and the red runs all the way up to her ears. She looks away from him bashfully. "I didn't do much. After you landed here that first cycle, I had my best tailors try to put together a king's collection in your dimensions so that you would have more to wear. It was my idea to have the clothes display both Galra and Altean style," she admits with a shy shrug, "but my friends should take credit."

"Allura-- your Majesty--" Lotor brings one of his hands to hover under her elbow, checking his former mistake, "thank you. You must know what this means to me."

"I do," Allura takes his hands in hers and lets their smiles see each other, "I can't fathom being forced to choose half of myself and then being denied no matter what I choose, but I understand the importance of embracing who you are. And there was a time when I was terribly unfair to you, Lotor. I judged you for who your father was and not who _you_ were, and I made a horrible mistake because of it. I want you to know that I'm sorry for that. This is my atonement."

"It is more than enough," Lotor says to her with gratitude, bringing their joined hands closer to his chest, leaning down towards her, "Thank you."

Allura instantly feels lighter. She can hear the relief in his voice, the _forgiveness_. It makes her want to cry, almost.

She leans towards Lotor naturally, her body responding to his. Their lips grow close and their eyelids lower like before, in her study. But the moment isn't the same. Allura makes them touch foreheads instead of lips, savoring their renewed friendship, not wanting to-- as the Paladins would say-- fuck this up.

They stand there for a full dobash, just looking at each other, at the floor, at their hands. Lotor feels a tightening in his chest at the loving gesture; at the gesture of faith and gratitude of the highest respect. His cobalt gaze widens at the intimacy. Gaze looking up, towards the place where his skin touches her crown, he feels Allura sigh softly.

Allura's eyelids threaten to fall shut and she begins to feel oddly cozy. Her skin begins to heat. Lotor feels so warm this close, so. . .

"Well go on," Allura forces herself to say with a laugh to hide her nervousness, her need to _abort_ , while nudging Lotor towards the closet; she was getting far too comfortable. "Try one on! And be quick, we're late enough as it is."

"As you wish, my Queen," Lotor says as he walks into the closet, looking as calm as she doen't feel, to assess his new clothes up close. He holds the soft fabrics in his hands, "Though I recall our tardiness being a result of _your_ forgetfulness."

"You know," Allura pretends to muse, "Coran's always ready, perhaps he would like his spot back as my counsel for the meeting. . ."

Lotor only chuckles at this and begins to disrobe. Allura goes to sit in the commons while he changes, ecstatic, anxious energy coursing through her body. She runs a hand softly over the black material of the Altean divan once she's made herself comfortable on it.

She can't help but smile at it with a belated sting in her eyes; not very long ago, she had thought she would never have something like this again. Now she has it and so much more, so much she'd given up hope for--

she glances back towards his resting quarter, eyes lingering on the open doors she could see just around the bend

\--and that included Lotor.


End file.
